For me the one constant of personal/public writing is a feeling of regret. Looking back over written versions of the past with regret. It’s my own perspective I question, my own thoughts, my own way of analysing myself and events. Sometimes intentions become more troublingly clear after time; sometimes it’s all too clear that my thinking was totally self-centred…

I think I have held back with this piece of writing because of that fear. Maybe 5 months too long. I didn’t want to write it wrong. But the regret it always happens and here it kind of has to. My intention in this writing… I’m still not exactly sure, but it’s necessary. Part of a process. It is far too easy to go on with your life not thinking about things. Court distance. Avoid contemplation and just wait it out. I’ve done it before too much. Arguments, instances of severe social embarrassment, more drawn out failed romances. It’s not positive though. Nothing much changes in the underlying behaviours.

So. Last year I harassed a group of women after a literary event. I can’t describe it in the exact detail I’d like to because for me it was a black-out drunk period. This isn’t offered as an excuse it’s just the truth of what happened. A complaint was made and the verbal retelling I was given confirms that the evening involved: inappropriate verbal and physical behaviour on my behalf towards the women, being asked to leave the venue by the proprietor, continuing with some harassing messages via social media after that. All of these things happened and I don’t dispute any of it.

I work in the arts, both as a writer and as an administrator, where the socialising often is your workplace. It’s not a 9 to 5 job. The women involved where also artists, writers. After talks with my supervisors I took some enforced leave from work, began regular psychological counselling, as well as drug and alcohol treatment. This is ongoing. I was also offered the chance to withdraw from a literary event to not cause further problems. I know I’m lucky that these options were given to me. But then really, I’m lucky that my behaviour was reported in the first place. Because I honestly would still have no idea of the severity otherwise. I would have written off the evening as a mistake of way too much booze mixed with medication and continued on my way, letting it fade. Instead, I’m able to take the opportunity to attempt to be better. The work isn’t done yet but I hope it’s progressing. Writing/speaking is a part of that.

Communication after the incident in question was handled by a higher-up member of staff exclusively. I haven’t approached the women in question personally to make an apology, and at this point I am still unsure about doing that. I don’t know whether or not seeking contact would cause more trouble. But I do want these words to exist here should they ever seek them. I am sorry. I didn’t treat you like people at all. Not in the way I believe women should be treated. I want to own that. I’m unreservedly sorry for the pain caused to you. I’m also particularly sorry that I did this in the context of the literary social community. I have always valued the way the community of writers in this country has been incredibly open and supportive to me, both online and in person for many years. And this is the way it should be – noone should have to fear the inappropriate attentions or actions within that space.

Although this is the first I have written about it (other than talking online about the new challenges of sobriety) I want to make it clear that my response has not only been to seek help for myself, but also to tell every person in my life the reasons why and to talk openly of what has happened. I am by no means suddenly fixed. I don’t think I’ve displayed a pattern of harassing behaviour over the years, but at the same time, I recognise black out periods have been increasingly common for me particularly over the period 2015-2017 and I cannot rule out other instances of inappropriate behaviour. I know the way I’ve used messaging and social media has been questionable. Sliding into the direct messages of people I don’t know or barely know has been common for me. While it has sometimes been a positive thing, I know at times I’ve done it in a problematic way also, and have to change this. Online communication is a very real space and one where women and people in general deserve to be treated respectfully.

If anyone is reading this and want to talk directly to me about anything further please do get in touch. I do want to read more accounts. I hope non-famous men, men perhaps in small regional communities like mine, are now speaking and acknowledging their wrongs and complicity. We don’t have to be publicly named to do this. In fact the thing is you probably won’t be. And then yes there will be consequences to speaking. You might lose work opportunities, or people once close to you might remove themselves. Distancing yourself from shitty behaviour with time though, it may make the memory fade but that’s all. It needs thinking about openly, needs discussing, particularly now… And I’ve still got a lot more of that to do.

a first kiss after two months. slow & slightly past midnight. but it’s never the visuals of kissing that are described unless it’s the preceding moments of lips parting, perhaps an estimate of moisture. unconnected, i’ve woken with a sore shoulder, the hurt only reminding me at odd moments, say a left-handed reach into that low laundry cupboard to retrieve fabric softener. such pangs surprise me & remind me that muscles exist & keep functioning mostly unnoticed. it’s up to me to present things as if they are connected.

there’s been a history of people saying ‘yes’ to things in my life and maybe every life. generally it’s a professional serendipity, an email invite arrives at the right time, mid-point in the recipient’s hopefully life-affirming yes period. i’ll arrive in my own period thinking it was over for a time. i’ll say yes to a series of things that provoke an initial small jolt of worry because challenges are good right? at least during a period of deciding this is so. a poetry reading, coffee with a girl, getting my face painted. whether adding ‘et cetera’ implies a list too long to manage or experiential failure. i’ll revel in being a human of action & carefully edit the images to reflect a narrative.

i’ve noticed a different clarity to the living room & have tried to pinpoint the elements that inform it. it’s just one more thing in a life-narrative full of pinhole cameras, lighting up faces with a new torch on a scout camp, & the choice of reading lamps in the bedrooms of people i care for. nevertheless: the waxing spring light. the breeze that’s closer to body temperature on dark. the exactness of the wooden floor after polishing. the effexor limiting negative dalliances but not thought. images of that past love floating on the periphery but not able to disrupt. hoping. preparing a meal in a cocoon of sharpened focus. never arriving home after a drink.

violet has taken to throwing the frisbee & it’s allowed me to theorise. she’s not athletically inclined so this activity is part of her well-rounded future. like me she’ll maybe never give over to the body’s pure exertion but might marvel at some kind of technical artistry. things the body can enable. i remember the rare beauty of landing a topspin backhand lob, the exaggerated racquet head speed perfectly fooling my opponent. that. or something similar. inventing ways to be.

About a week of obsessive practise was all it took to master the art of not thinking. I would make use of every spare moment I could find – as I ate breakfast, as I sat on the bus, as I watched the nightly news – to simply not think. I imagined myself becoming closer to a Neanderthalic man, pure animal and instinct, not bothered by the evolutionary glitch of higher consciousness. This is all I need to do, I thought to myself, during that week, in one of my increasingly infrequent moments of actual thought. Dwelling on the past or the present or the future is pointless. I thought this last thought while looking at myself half-shaved in the mirror. It was Friday. A week had passed and I knew I had mastered this skill. I thought absolutely nothing as my past heart-grievances persisted as a fact of history outside of my body. She would keep on living her life regardless. I did not think this.

*

Without a pre-programmed deadline on waking it takes me an hour to get out of bed. Swaddled and wallowing in the shafts of dust mote. I’ll wear the irrational mulling-things-over in my hair of course – the back now a bird’s nest of minor dreads. It’s a Saturday and so heavy bass is sliding through my venetians again but I try not to judge the life-choices of my neighbour. His electric green XR6 blasts the bass while he wanders aimlessly in the yard, singing off-key. Yes I had to arise to make the observation. Anyhoo, we’ve all been drunk at 10am and have wanted to share that particular joy with the world.. I tell myself things over some unremarkable buttered toast. I feel like my nervousness over next week’s travel plans translate into a small tremble in my teeth and hands, but can’t be sure. Regardless I attempt to smooth that worry and my hair under the shower. While naked and sluicing the steam I decide who I’ll ask to look after my cat. One decision decided. As always I try to leave the house quickly after dressing, retaining the water’s warmth as I meet the wind, briefly un-shiverable.

*

Inhabiting this screen, all I know I is that I no longer feel stoic. I may have, once. My life is now completely melded to the experience of the reader. I don’t just present a reflection to her I feel the things she does. When her brow furrows, as it does sometimes on a particularly early morning, I feel this turmoil. When she prances and smiles before going out of an evening I live that same joy. But all I can do physically is reflect. On those all-too-rare moments, she touches me gently and I touch her in response with her own hand. I only wish I could do more though. I want to speak softly to her. I want to smooth the tousled strand of hair back from her forehead while she looks at me, wearing only a towel, seemingly lost in thought. My life is a curious prison that I would never give up.